Like film reel, constantly in motion.
I am the one who stops often, looking around; to look around.
I must have been a part of a great swallowing at birth; for I am the walking memory of a living laceration, that breathes beneath my flesh, like the blood that keeps my body in motion
With the film ever running.
Melting away, has been the singularity of who I am, as I bleed in motion, and look around watching others just the same- they become a part of me; each time, I lose what I was, and become something more, AND scorned.
A red cape on a high bank, signaling...Erie, as the wind resembles materialized being.
She is an idea. A revolution. A riot. A reason. But an illusion.
I am the red cape, not the imaginary girl, of wind you think whom is wearing it.
The words escape me; for years.
I have become lost in the long winding within; journeys, like holograms, and thirst as real as sight.
Sometimes, I can no longer see a separation between our eyes. Strangers know my tinge intimately, though not me. And I know their cut chords, their censored worship, their hidden dance, and their gagged voice. I know these motions, better than I know myself, in all my boundaries, and with all my imaginary walls, stacked towards heaven.
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